


Regarding the High Holy Days

by JeanLuciferGohard



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen, davey is really jewish and spot is really annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 12:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10741611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanLuciferGohard/pseuds/JeanLuciferGohard
Summary: "David Jacobs prayed, with the desperate, inchoate longing of a man condemned, for the warm, red brick behind his shoulders to open up blackly and swallow him whole; black, to hide in, and, there, safely devoured in Manhattan’s vast, sooty throat, he would cast his eyes to G-d and beg again to be safe from the torture of trying to explain the finer points of the High Holy Days and associated practices, a trial for which there existed no parable or precedent even among the many and varied thousand-year sufferings of G-d’s chosen people. "Or:Spot Conlon is THAT friend.





	Regarding the High Holy Days

David Jacobs prayed, with the desperate, inchoate longing of a man condemned, for the warm, red brick behind his shoulders to open up blackly and swallow him whole; black, to _hide_ in, and, there, safely devoured in Manhattan’s vast, sooty throat, he would cast his eyes to G-d and beg again to be safe from the torture of trying to explain the finer points of the High Holy Days and associated practices, a trial for which there existed no parable or precedent even among the many and varied thousand-year sufferings of G-d’s chosen people. 

“I am broadly fuckin’ familiar, _thank you,_ with the concept of ‘forgive me father, i have sinned’,"he drawled in between drags of one of the cigarettes which seemed to constantly accrue about his person like pigeons to statuary, fluttering around his face as Spot gestured expansively. "What I’m sayin’ is, what could _you_ possibly have to confess, Dave? Fuck could _you_ have done this whole year needs atoning for?”  
  
Any minute now, David prayed, any minute, the wall would open and gulp him up away from Spot’s ashy, drawled questions and the October wind robbing the day of any real warmth, or, better yet, Spot would grow tired of the game and lope off back to Brooklyn or maybe, if he was especially lucky, the world would just end right then and there, with the sun going down and 6 papers still to sell.  
  
But instead, he found himself muttering “If this keeps up, I’m sure I’ll think of something”.  
  
“Are you _threatening_ me?” Spot was very close, very suddenly close, his voice very still and very even, and his eyes, behind the thin streams of smoke, were at the same time very clear and very dark, like deep water iced over just enough to make accidental drowning headlines when you tried to walk on it. David stammered.  
  
“Wha– _no_ , no I _–no_ , of _course_ I wouldn–”  
  
Halfway through his fractured apologies, he realized that Spot had draped an arm across his shoulders, Spot was pulling him in even closer, Spot was _laughing_ delightedly into the crook of his neck.  David could feel it, warm against his collar.  
  
“Holy _shit_ ,” Spot cackled “Jesus, this–Davey, this might be the most I have _ever_ liked you since we _met_ , right now.” He held David at arm’s length, looking him up and down with naked appraisal. “Y'know, I’m really proud of you? Never thought you’d have it in ya.”  
  
“I–what?” _What just happened,_ _what exactly **was** that,_ he tried to say, but the words rolled anxiously behind his teeth like scattered marbles and not a single one of them came out. The back of his shoulder brushed the mutinously solid brick at his back as Spot cuffed him lightly, pushing off to fish out another cigarette.

It occurred to David that he never saw the _first_ one burn out, and now it was almost dark.

“You threatened me.” It came out muffled, curled behind his hand which he had, in turn, cupped protectively around a newly-lit match. “Ain’t healthy for a guy to go doin’ that.” Spot’s face lit up with a coppery underglow, painting him red-toothed and terrifying until it guttered and died with a sharp flick of his wrist as he shook the match out. “But it’s _you_ , y’know, with” he gestured vaguely, “all this you got going on. Most entertaining thing thing s’happened to me all goddamn _month.”_

David entertained, for a moment, the thought of feeling insulted that he was, in so many words, considered an amusing oddity; he considered that the _best_ thing to do, in all likelihood, would be to gather up his papers and his remaining dignity and leave; and in the end, the petty, baser urges that Spot Conlon seemed to draw out of him like poison from a wound, won out.

“Always happy to help out a friend.” He quipped archly.

“Anybody tell you that you got a _mouth_ on you, Davey? That’s what I like about you. Piss n’ vinegar in a goddamn sweater-vest. Now come on, c’mere,” Hand to wrist to elbow to shoulder, he hauled David closer, or hauled himself up the taller boy’s side, patting the newspapers tucked in the crook of his other arm,“You’re not gonna sell these. So you give ‘em here, and _I’ll_ do it, and we go 60-40 in the morning, yeah? On account of how I like you so much.”

With a tidal inevitability, David found himself nodding, and the stack of papers ebbed away from his grasp.

“There ya go. Easy. Anyway, see ya ‘round Davey! Have fun with your Kipper!”

“Yom _Kippur_ ”, He called at Spot’s retreating back, “You made me explain it for _half an hour_ , you could’ve at least _paid attention._ ”

Wreathed faintly in smoke, Spot only laughed.


End file.
